


baking bad

by carnivorousBelvedere



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Baking, Breaking Bad AU, Crack Treated Seriously, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Eventual Smut, Gangs, M/M, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-08-26 02:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousBelvedere/pseuds/carnivorousBelvedere
Summary: The first time Dave learns a kitchen is for making food is at his friend John’s house.When he’s old enough Bro immediately enlists him to run molly to the city. The one hitch is they need a way to deliver it discreetly…---Mr. Egbert, desperate to pay for his son’s college bills, responds to an ad in the paper and finds himself tangled up in the criminal underworld he never knew Dave thrived in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/gifts), [PeachBriseadh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna go ahead and gift this to my precious enablers. I LOVE YOU GUYS!

The biggest problem Bro ever had was getting the chemicals.

The second was a penthouse apartment, the tallest he could get. 

The easiest was finding a runner. That was Dave, obviously. 

Dave starts deliveries as soon as he’s able to drive at sixteen. He manages to pass as a little older (even if young the stress of his daily strifes and poor nutrition took a hit on his face) and he’s already lined with lean, tough muscle. By the time he’s eighteen, he really can throw his weight around if needed. 

He drives the same car, an inconspicuous silver Toyota Camry, or the most common car in the United States of America, with rather conspicuous tinted windows. 

By the time Dave is nineteen, he’s been doing runs monthly to buyers in and outside of the large Texan cities. There’s a reason- no one pays attention to him. He wears his shades, keeps his head down, and somehow people leave him alone. 

He carries a sword despite the jeers of the dealers he meets with. As the popularity of Bro’s product, a pressed ecstasy bar named “Puppet Sex”, spreads on the streets, the sort of folks Dave interacts with becomes more and more unsavory. 

It makes him envious of John’s leave from the suffocating city to his dad’s alma mater in the midwest, or Jade’s travel, or Rose’s stuffy private school up in the pacific northwest. 

College was never going to be an option for Dave. He knew that from a very young age. Even now as he enters adulthood he wonders if he’ll ever find his way to a normal life.

But for now, he sells drugs to the big dealers better than anyone stateside. He’s on one such outing at this very moment.

He rolls up in the Camry to the vast warehouse parking lot, watching as the sun blinks out of existence over the faraway massive mountain range, shrunk down to hills with the distance. 

_Everything is bigger in Texas_ , Dave thinks bitterly. 

He grunts and shoves the car into park, digging around in the center console for the bag of two hundred pills he’s about to sell for ten thousand. He keeps bugging Bro about a better way to transport but Dave just gets met with the usual silence and cold shoulder.

He sighs and shoves the bag into the large inner pocket of his leather jacket. It subdues the brightness of the red shirts he likes to wear underneath. Well, it’s more become the uniform. Bosses even tell their lookouts for the dude in a red shirt and leather jacket, and almost no one has misidentified him in a year now. 

He rolls his ankles in his high top red converse and makes sure the folded cuffs of his straight leg jeans are even. Then as a final touch, he checks that his hair is laying flat and his lenses are clean before he opens the door and steps out of the car. Gotta make sure the look is complete, otherwise they won’t take him seriously. 

He’s been through this too many times. This run is practically formality. 

“Sup, Jones” he says to the man sitting at the rusting edge of the truck depot. 

“Heyyyy Dave, long time no see brother,” Jones nods at him. 

“How’s your girlfriend?” Dave tries to make small talk as Jones gets up and opens the metal gate for him.

“Which one?” he answers and wheezes pitifully at his own joke with an edge of smoker’s lung.

“Very funny,” Dave says without an ounce of humor. 

As soon as the gate is rolled open enough for him to enter he walks through the door, making his way to the main warehouse floor. 

The floor balloons dust as Dave crosses the poorly lit expanse to where this area’s boss, Madeon, is having his weekly poker night. 

“Dave!” the man calls as he sees him coming. “Come sit the fuck down brother!”

“Not today, Mads. You know I hate to toot it and boot it but you know what they say.”

“What, toot it and boot it? Who the fuck says that?” the men sitting around him laugh at the entirely unfunny statement. “How much you got for me today?”

“Two hundred, just like you asked. People must really like this shit.”

“Hey what can I say, Bro makes a good product.”

One of the men at the table watching the interaction pipes up. “Is the guy that makes Puppet Sex?”

Dave sighs internally and nods stiffly. 

“Holy shit dude, that shit had me rolling motherfucking _balls_ the other night,” the man laughs and high fives one of the guys sitting next to him. 

_Oh my god just pay me so I can leave_ , Dave thinks. “Bro makes a good product, my friend. Most reliable roll outside of Los Angeles since 2014.” He pulls the bag out of his inner pocket when he gets to Madeon’s seat at the table and presents it to him. The boss looks at it with a greedy eye and nods for a man watching in the corner. The man quickly retrieves a suitcase from behind the dusty makeshift bar in the corner and brings it over. 

He presents it on the table to Dave, who does a cursory scan to make sure the stack size and money type lines up. Sure looks like 10k to him. He tosses the bag of pills onto the green felt table and goes to close the suitcase so he can take it with him.

As he’s leaning over the table he feels something jab his stomach from where Madeon is sitting.

“Hey Dave, you know we like you, but tell your Bro not to get so greedy. Another price raise and we might have to start sending him some messages back, you feel me?” Madeon presses what is obviously a small handgun into Dave’s side.

Dave sighs and tries to think back to how much a bullet into the side is supposed to hurt, but then considers that at this close range it would suck a lot more than the time Bro skinned his shoulder out practicing shots in the outer city limits. 

“I hear ya loud and clear, Made-bro,” Dave sighs, and finishes with locking the suitcase and picking it off the table. He turns and walks away towards the same way he came in, not even daring to look back at the man who just threatened him. 

Everything is bigger in Texas-- the roads, the buildings, the gangs, the money. 

The lies. 

 

\---

“Hey dad, I have some bad news,” John says over the phone. 

“What is it, son? Are you ill? It’s far too early in the semester for you to have failed out,” Mr. Egbert answers his son. 

“No no. Uh, shit. You know when I told you I was gonna use loans to pay for this?”

“Yes, I was very proud of you for taking financial decisions into your own hands, even if I disagree with your methods and think that student loans are a trap for the success of your future self.”

“Yeah well… about that.”

Mr. Egbert waits patiently as his son forms his statement. 

“I need help. My loans didn’t go through.”

Mr. Egbert sucks in a breath. And then he stops and hopes John didn’t hear that. John is stressed enough as is, he doesn’t need any financial worries from his dad’s end hitting him either. 

Well, he already knew. That’s the reason John demanded to pay in the first place. 

“How much is your tuition bill this semester?” Mr. Egbert says and attempts to include as much confidence in his voice as possible. 

“I mean, each semester is thirty thousand, and my first payment is due in three weeks, but dad--”

“No son we’ve discussed this. You pursuing your education should be your sole focus. I will make sure of this. Don’t you worry about it, just send me your payment portal information and I’ll take care of it.”

“Dad I know you don’t have that kind of money.”

He’s gritting his teeth when he answers. “I said son, I’ll take care of it. Now you get back to focus on your biology courses and winning Nobel Prizes.”

“Dad!”

“I love you, John.”

“Okay okay I-love-you-dad-bye!” John says rapidly and hangs up.

Mr. Egbert puts his phone down on his desk and leans forward into his hands.

Shit. 

Where is he going to get at least five thousand dollars in three weeks?


	2. Chapter 2

Dave brings the suitcase home and sets it on a corner of the table that isn’t covered in Bro’s various science experiments gone wrong aka their homegrown MDMA lab. 

Bro doesn’t even look at him when he walks in. Dave scoffs. He doesn’t know why Bro is so confident they won’t get caught, but he secretly hopes it’ll get him bit in the ass one day. 

Dave watches as Bro finishes an alcohol pour to isolate some product before he puts down the glass and comes over to Dave, taking his gloves off.  
He counts the money, very thoroughly, every single time without fail. Dave has thought to slip a few extra bucks for himself before but he’s sure the following rooftop reaming would leave him unable to walk so he’s always decided against it. 

When Bro is done counting he shoves Dave’s cut over to him.

“Why did we increase the prices,” he asks as Bro is turning away to pick back up with his work. 

“It’s purer now,” Bro offers unhelpfully. “They’ll be thanking us later, trust me.” 

Dave sighs and rolls his eyes, deciding it a dead issue. Bro doesn’t care about Dave getting guns shoved in his face. Those complaints are met with a dull, condescending “Well did you bring your sword?”

And the following day likely met with an earlier, even more intense strife. 

Dave decides to head back to his room where he stores the cash away and boots up his computer.

He debates messaging John, seeing how he’s doing. But he decides against it. He’d have to lie about how much his new job sucks. Which would make Dave think about how he doesn’t have a job, and he would much rather avoid that. He doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life, if he’s being honest. College didn’t feel right, so he told his friends he was taking a year off to think about it. 

It was a half truth. He was just making so much money now he didn’t want to stop. If he can save enough up, maybe he can get his own place, make the cash last long enough while he finally gets off his feet somewhere else…

If there’s one thing he never saw himself doing as a kid, it was running drugs.

-

Dave didn’t see the car fast enough as it slide out from the alleyway. _Shit_. It’s just his luck they’d be patrolling this far out here. Sometimes he can just scoot by without suspicion, maybe this time… no. 

He is inevitably pulled over. The lights flash behind him and time slows to a crawl. He grips the steering wheel in front of him with sweating hands. Behind his shades, he wills his eyes to not keep glancing at the center console where the run is still stashed. 

The cop stalks up to his window and taps on the glass. Dave swallows and turns to him with a smile, letting the anxiety slide of his face with one practiced move and rolling down the window. 

“Hello, officer!” he says as the man leans down to talk to him, one forearm leaning on the top of the car. 

“License and registration, please.”

“Well hey now, I think you’re supposed to tell me what I did wrong first.”

“We’re on the lookout for suspicious activity in this area,” the cop answers, deadpan as could be. “Nondescript vehicle is reason enough out here.” 

“Okay hear me out. Not trying to be suspicious? Google maps just did me wrong for a hot second there, I promise you.”

“You’re pretty far out for this to be ‘a wrong turn’.” 

“Yeah officer you have a point there but-”

“Listen, I’m going to need to see your license and registration please. If you would just cooperate I can let you go with a warning.” 

“I’d really prefer the second half of that statement.” 

“Sir, unless you hand over your license and registration, I’ll start to have probable cause to search your vehicle.” 

Dave realizes there is indeed a god when he opens his mouth once more only to be shut off by a loud crackle through the officer’s radio. Some garbled nonsense he can’t parse comes out. The officers listens to whatever it is and then cusses lowly. 

“Shit. I need to go. Let’s just say you got lucky, kid. I’m going to assume the best. Next time, don’t forget your license at home and stay out of shady areas.” 

And then the officer practically sprints to their vehicle and speeds away with lights flashing.

Dave stares at his hands as he realizes how lucky he just got. 

Okay. He can’t do this anymore. When he gets home, he and Bro are going to _talk_. 

-

“I need a better way to hide this shit,” Dave spits when throws down the cash that day. Usually such venom in his voice would get him slapped but he’d rather get slapped right now than spend several years in jail.

“Why, you almost get caught again? That only happened because you were being a lazy shit who wasn’t looking.”

“That’s not the point,” Dave tries then. “I need a discreet way to transport this. This benefits us in the long run.”

“I don’t give a fuck, that’s not my job here. Stop wasting my time. If you need something, get it. It just comes out of your cut. If it’s a someone, they better keep their fucking mouth shut.” 

Wow, that’s about the best he could have expected of that interaction. He slinks to his room, considering his options.

Something strange happens later when he’s browsing the internet, maybe or maybe not for job listings, and he’s being advertised a couple of Betty Crocker products, of all things. That’s dumb, his google tracking should know by now he’s never used a regular kitchen for himself-- 

Wait. 

Wait wait wait wait wait. 

_Baking_. The most unsuspecting thing is _food_. No one expects to see cocaine sprinkled over their donuts. He can put the drugs in the _food_. He starts laughing, intensely relieved at his realization. The answer was so simple this whole time, holy shit. 

Fuck. He doesn’t have his own kitchen. Or know how to bake anything for that matter. Holy shit, any attempt at baking would be terrible. Cops would be right to be suspicious if they ever saw something he made in the car. 

The closest he’s come to making food is watching John’s dad actually make the food. He doesn’t know anything about it. 

Well, he’s got a few days to find someone. Time to put an ad in the paper. Or Craigslist, ugh. At least he can borrow a google number, but he’s gonna have to be careful. It’s so easy to get caught doing that now. 

He needs to find someone that can bake.


	3. Chapter 3

Saying goodbye to John had been the most difficult event Mr. Egbert could remember in his recent life. He had practically clung to the boy as he saw him off to his dorm, wiping away proud tears. 

He should feel victorious. 

He doesn’t. 

It had been hard to let go of the boy he had held, coddled, fed, and practical joked into adulthood. The nightly ritual of dinners shared at the table without exception, sometimes with the company of friends, were now moments he let slip by. The moment six o’clock rolls by, he is struck with emptiness, a rolling wave in his chest of something missing. 

He doesn’t have John to fawn over anymore, to be sure he was doing his work (he rarely had to) or spending his time wisely. John is gone now.

He fills his time with baking, his projects of which he always tries to donate the next morning to the local soup kitchen on his way to the office. 

Lemon meringue bundt cakes, blueberry crumble muffins, espresso cupcakes are just a few of the simple recipes he sinks into. But these are not his favorite challenges. 

The best way he manages to leech the newly lonesome hours out is with a hobby he’d grown over the years: cake decorating. He now has the time to hone his skills with fondant rolling and cutting, creating luxurious patterns of roses or what seems to fit his fancy in that moment. Now he can make mirror-like glittering glazes, checkerboard patterns, or entire gardens if he wills it. He never quite had the time when John was around- John usually ate the cake too quick for it to be turned into any beast of exquisiteness. 

And there it is again- his thoughts are always turning back to those dinner table conversations with John and the friends he would sometimes bring by. 

He thinks of Dave fleetingly, the boy who would sometimes join them at that dinner table. John’s best friend. He was always too scrawny, and tension lined his face beneath those stubborn shades whenever he thought someone wasn’t looking. And there was always that hesitancy when he needed to leave, a clear indication of his disappointing home life he refused to discuss and would laugh off. 

In overhearing conversations, Mr. Egbert caught bits about a vague “Bro” they would refer to. Over time, he became aware Dave wasn’t exactly under the watch of a discerning guardian. 

There is a moment, a quick one, where he debates inviting Dave over and seeing how he is doing. He isn’t off to college along with the other kids in their group as far as he was aware, maybe he should....

No, he can’t do this. It’s so tempting, to find a way to fall back on the life he had with John. Making someone the focus of his shrunken universe. 

John is gone. He needs to stop denying it to himself, accept his success as a father. 

The comforting, consistent days of raising his son into the young man he is today are over. The void of that is fresh, and now when he spends his evening hours at home there is a dull ache within him that yearns for more. An itch to do something, not even cleaning or baking. 

As the days increase since John’s departure the itch grows under his skin. A beckoning restlessness to something he’d long ago known but chose to ignore. He can’t remember what it is. 

Maybe it’s time to revisit his wish of opening a cafe. When he stumbles upon that, the mere fact that he once dreamed it in full vibrancy, empowered by youth and now greyed out with the pressure of time, he has to uncover it with work. The memory, the dream, it’s still there, it’s just faded and covered in a layer of mental dust, laid among everything else he sacrificed for John. 

Sacrifice isn’t the right word, it never was. Raising John was a joy. John was everything he ever needed. John was his everything. 

And for so long it was just John, after his grandmother passed away. That was when he left his old job and pursued a CPA, realizing he needed a profession that offered him more stability. 

He realizes with a start that he’s reminiscing and wasting minutes over his meal. It would be better use of time to clean up and get to work on another cake project- he’s working on gold designs today, if he starts now who knows what he can make. 

He can put off job searching until tomorrow. 

He prefers not to change when he starts to work on the desserts. He simply rolls up his sleeves and loosens a top button or two, and having already removed his tie he gets to work. 

The next day he’ll do the same thing. And probably the next after that. 

Well, unless he manages to find a new source of income. That’s got to be the goal right now. John is depending on him, and he will come through as he always has. 

Consistency. That’s what Mr. Egbert has always been about, a low mantra he chanted to himself through the years until it became unyielding dogma. 

Consistency. The same, day after day, with the only change the growth of the young man in front of him, the only indication that time was actually passing. 

But to what end is this consistency now that its foundation is lost? 

The existential fear grips him tightly for a moment. His ribs freeze and his eyes glaze over. The tube of frosting in his hand is over squeezed, leading to an excess dollop of frosting over the area he’s working on. 

With a gasp he returns to reality and sighs as he realizes his mistake. No, he is not so resolute that these fearful, meaningless thoughts don’t affect him. They just never had before. 

Back then, when John was brought to him, eighteen years seemed like a drop in the bucket of life. 

Oh, how wrong he was. 

He uses the spatula to delicately scoop the excess frosting back into the featherweight piping bag. Working with frosting is always a diligent practice. 

He had thought before John was gone that he would be impervious to the anxieties of the empty nest. 

John had always been the large bandage covering up the larger issue. Mr. Egbert had integrated himself so well with the concept of _father_ that he couldn’t even begin to extricate himself. 

John was his son-- his own blood. The one thing he could do right, without a shadow of a doubt. Had it really been so easy to become a father? He can’t imagine it any other way now. 

Dredging up memories of the _before_ is almost painful now. It’s with effort that he extracts them from the periphery of his mind but they come back lifeless. The context of the man who once lived them, dreamed them, is gone. He doesn’t remember. 

Or he chooses not to. The absurd guilt at the cost of it would be too much to bear. 

He’s still a father, he always will be one. And a father should always support his children. 

It shouldn’t be such a relief that John still needs his help. But it is. It’s an excuse to keep on with that adamant sameness. 

Tomorrow morning he’ll roll out the paper and put his nose to the grindstone. It’s not tax season, he’s got the world at his fingertips. 

\---

A morning of search leads him to one peculiar section request, however benign, does strike up some unease in his gut that he can’t place. Yet it seems simple enough. 

Seeking 200 cupcakes for Molly’s birthday party, larg3 budget, please inquire to phone number: 713-328-3445

 

So he calls.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hello, yes, I was inquiring about your ad in the paper? You have an order of two-hundred cupcakes you need filled?”

Dave drops his voice. He’s not very good at it. “Yes! Molly’s birthday, of course. Thanks for calling.”

“Yes, so, do you want to meet to discuss what you’d like done, or mail it to me, or…”

“Yeah! We should meet to discuss first, of course.” 

“Oh, excellent! Are you aware at this point what your budget is? Are you going to be requiring baking services on a regular basis?”

“Hm. Uh. Over a couple thousand? And uh, yeah?” 

“Oh, my. That is quite a budget, isn’t it. We can iron out those details when we meet, absolutely.”

\---

Dave decides to set the meeting point at a busy cafe in the city. Anything and everything is plausible deniability. He arrives early and nervously fingers at his gold Rolex, something he’d splurged on a couple years ago, before realizing it’s a bit ostentatious for the setting and shoving his sleeve over it. He’d told his baker to wear something distinct, and they had rose to the occasion, saying they’d be wearing a fedora. 

Sounds pretty distinct to him. 

He watches from a corner of the cafe as someone wearing a fedora enters and takes a seat, their back to him and face half obscured by their hat. They slip into a table and pick up a paper, casually reading. Dave circles around the room, glancing around to make sure there isn’t anyone else it could be with that hat. They sure as hell look like they could be a narc, which is honestly the most likely scenario. The man, he’s quiet sure it was a man from the phone call, is clearly too well dressed for the job. A nice build, sure as hell doesn’t look like someone who either bakes or is involved in drug trade. 

Dave slides around the room until he can see their face and stops dead in his tracks. It’s an older man. He’s got strong facial features, defined cheekbones and an unforgettable jawline. Black hair peeks out from under the fedora with a smattering of grey that pronounces itself over his ears is a distinct stripe. 

No. Absolutely no way. This isn’t possible. He thinks back to the phone call, and _laughs_. How could he have been so stupid? The person who called him _honestly thought he needed two hundred cupcakes, possibly for a young child named Molly_. 

That’s rich. 

He slides into the seat opposite from the man. “No freakin’ way,” he says. “Nice to see you, Mr. Egbert.” 

None other that Mr. Egbert, his best friend John’s dad, is tilting his head up to look at him. 

“Oh hello, Dave. Didn’t expect to see you here today. And you know you can always call me Dad,” Mr. Egbert greets him brightly, more brightly than Dave deserves considering the situation. He adjusts the hat a little so that it sits higher on his head, allowing Dave prime visual access to those bright baby blues he shares with John. 

Dave feels a heavy drop of guilt in his stomach. “Yeah uh, no. Listen uh, what brings you here today?”

“Well, you know how I’m always baking away, I thought I’d actually put my skills to good use in the community! Answered a rather strange ad, now that I’m thinking about it.” Mr. Egbert looks so pleased to see him. It makes Dave swallow uncomfortably. 

Dave laughs quietly and leans back into his chair, stretching out. “Oh man, that’s so _funny_ ,” he says casually, no real humor in his voice. “Was it for two hundred cupcakes, by any chance?”

Mr. Egbert peers at him in confusion. “Yes, it was. Why, did you also see it? I didn’t know you had an interest in baking, Dave.” 

“Man, you know. It’s just so funny you say that,” Dave says and leans forward suddenly. “Because I put that ad up.” 

“You…. what? But that’s not your phone number.” 

Dave laughs quietly. “Mr. Egbert, I’m going to level with you right now,” he leans even further to whisper across the table. Mr. Egbert leans in closer to meet him halfway. Dave jerks forward to whisper in his ear, leaning his fist on the table and purposefully getting close into his personal space. “Those cupcakes aren’t for someone’s birthday party. I need them to hide a shitload of drugs.”

Mr. Egbert pulls away and looks at Dave in bewilderment. “ _What_?”

“You heard me.”

“You want to--” Mr. Egbert starts and is quickly silenced by a hand over his mouth. 

“ _Don’t_.” Dave says, warning in his voice. There’s already too many people around. Mr. Egbert stares back at him as Dave removes his hand. That was weird, he can’t remember ever doing something so… casual around him. Undignified, Egbert would probably say. 

Mr. Egbert puts the paper down on the table and doesn’t comment on the breech of space. “I… I have a lot of questions, Dave. I never quite expected this from you!” 

“It’s not exactly my choice,” Dave mutters. He can hear something wavering in Mr. Egbert’s usually robust voice. It feels like disappointment. 

Mr. Egbert starts to stand. “Nonetheless, I don’t think I can help you. I’m sorry, Dave.”

“ _Wait_.” Dave grabs Mr. Egbert’s arm and pulls him still. “Listen, I don’t know if you’re strapped for cash at all, but you could stand to make six, maybe eight thousand in a month.” 

“Dave, I--” Mr. Egbert starts, but then Dave watches as he does the math in his brain. 

“Six thousand dollars? In a month?” he asks.

Dave grins. “Minimum, guaranteed.”

The thing is, Dave doesn’t have anyone he can trust. He can’t trust Bro. All his friends are gone. All he has is this one, slim possibility that the universe brought him. 

Because he knows he can trust Mr. Egbert. And now he’ll do anything to have him on his side. 

Mr. Egbert sits back down. “I’m listening, but no guarantees. What’s... the catch. Because this seems a little too good to be true.” 

Dave shrugs, trying not to look so relieved that he took the bait. “Practically none. All I gotta do is bring you the stuff and you bake it like I tell you, and then I bring you your cut later. You do this, consider yourself an official part of the Strider team.”

Mr. Egbert snorts. “I always knew that guardian of yours was up to no good.”

“Really? All this and that’s what you have to say?”

“I never liked him. And I know you, Dave. I can’t believe you just told me all that because… Well. Because this isn’t you.”

Dave stares at him from behind his shades. For a moment, a very strange moment, he feels _seen_. By his best friend’s hot dad, for that matter. 

“Does John know about all this?” Mr. Egbert asks, tentatively, when Dave doesn’t say anything immediately. 

“Oh, hell no,” Dave sighs. The response is almost grunted. It’s bittersweet, the fact that he maintained this double life, this facade around John for so long. And now the first person to find out before is not his best friend but his best friend’s dad. 

“Good, good. Could we arrange it so that he…. Doesn’t find out about this? Ever?”

“Already done. Wasn’t intending to ever tell him anyways.” Dave watches him shiftily, wanting to ask why he needs the money but deciding that to be an ill topic to bring up while they negotiate this. He’ll find out eventually. 

Egbert nods, clearly relieved. “And the law enforcement?” he’s talking softly now, eyes glancing to the side as well to watch for listening ears. 

Dave shakes his head. “That’s where you come in. You do this, the likelihood of getting caught goes from slim to none.” He almost can’t believe it, the fact that Mr. Egbert is actually considering this proposal. It was too easy. 

Mr. Egbert watches him suspiciously across the table. 

Dave sticks his hand out boldly. “You in or not?” 

Mr. Egbert takes his hand and practically crushes it. Dave winces, but partially because it feels like when he’s touched they shock each other with static. Egbert doesn’t react, he just stares very intensely at Dave. He feels like he might start melting under the intensity of it. 

“John is never to find out about this,” Mr. Egbert states one more time, not releasing his hand and practically glaring at dave. There’s a clear warning in it. 

“John never finds out,” Dave affirms and Mr. Egbert finally lets him go, an air of relief in his action.

Dave shakes his hand out to the side. “Welcome to the team, partner.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave and Dad do a little baking

Mr. Egbert lets Dave in, who is hovering on his front steps with a grin on his face. “Long time since I been here,” he comments. 

“You know you’re always welcome,” Mr. Egbert says. It’s true, he’s always tried to make Dave feel as welcome as possible. He was always a welcome addition to their table at home, a constant in his life with John. 

And yet, he observes Dave as he floats on the steps of the threshold, knowing that once he passes through everything will change. 

It had taken him awhile to process the new information that Dave was dealing drugs. Dave, the boy who came over at least once a week for years. He couldn’t comprehend it, and even as Dave stood before him asking to be let in, the reality of the situation still had not fully settled in.

Because he was at odds with himself and the fact that he had agreed at all. He didn’t know, couldn’t understand why his answer had been yes. He never saw himself as someone who would submit to such unsavory activities, even with the promise of lucrative rewards. 

There is no catch, Dave had said. 

There is _always_ a catch. 

Maybe it was Dave’s earnestness that had caught him. Maybe it was the fact that he knew Dave, knew that he could trust him. 

Hoped he could trust him. 

Maybe it was that soft restlessness, rustling in his subconscious and telling him to chase something, anything. A siren’s song to lead him out of his flour-dusted, greying life. 

No, he won’t let his mind wander there. At the end of the day, he could still tell himself he was working on baking. It would be an easy enough lie to swallow. 

Dave has also assured him several times that these weren’t addictive or ‘hard’ drugs, though that statement in itself seemed unnecessary- what drugs _weren’t_ hard? It had led to a particularly enlightening series of google searches. Something about reading details concerning these drugs and their effects made his skin crawl and head woozy, and he couldn’t maintain his research for long. 

“Even now?” Dave questions, a sad half-smile on his face. It seems he is aware of the strange circumstances as well. 

And yet, Mr. Egbert does not falter when he answers him. “Even now.” 

He closes the door behind Dave, who steps into the entryway and breathes in deeply, exhaling with relief. “Smells just like I remember it,” he murmurs. Mr. Egbert imagines he’s getting lost in nostalgic memories of his visits. It touches on something tender and wilting, but there isn’t time to think about it. 

Dave shakes himself out of it as Mr. Egbert leads him to the kitchen, where he takes the package out of a pocket in his leather jacket and slides it on the counter. 

Mr. Egbert freezes when he sees the contents, an innumerable amount of pressed pills. He’s going to be handling these drugs, these ridiculous expensive illicit substances that people apparently pay small fortunates to obtain. It’s slowly but surely becoming more real. 

“What do you want me to do with this,” he asks, glancing up and down between Dave and the package. 

“I dunno man, get creative. I guess I want you to bake them into two hundred cupcakes, a pill for each one? Preferably super mini-sized, is that even a thing? Would make carrying all this a whole lot easier. Man, maybe I didn’t think this shit through.” 

Mr. Egbert watches him, still barely comprehending. 

“Is that gonna be okay, sir?” Dave shoots. 

It’s the honorific that shakes Mr. Egbert back to reality. “Yes, absolutely. And Dave, you know you don’t need to be so formal here.” Even after years of urging, Dave couldn’t seem to drop those formalities around him. And even stranger, a part of Mr. Egbert liked it, particularly from Dave.

He can barely appreciate the irony that after all these years of being a figure of authority for Dave, he’s now under direction of the boy himself. 

Making light of such irony would probably send the young man in his presence on a tirade, having long ago established himself as an expert on such things. Dave likely is well aware of such irony in their newfound relationship, er, _partnership_ , and is probably waiting for Mr. Egbert to comment on the subject. He won’t. 

Dave shrugs. Mr. Egbert busies himself with mentally locating where the pans are that would enable what Dave is requesting, two forty-eight hole cupcake ones. It’ll be a tedious task, but it’s nothing he hasn’t accomplished before. 

And he has the company of Dave now. The incongruity of his mental classification of the boy strikes him anew. 

Dave, the boy who grew up along his son, and Dave, the boy who _he is about to help deal drugs_. 

He takes the pans to the end of the counter to be sprayed down, not letting this mental warfare bubble to the surface. “Any... preference on flavor?” 

“Nope,” Dave says. “I don’t think our _customers_ necessarily care about that part.” His disdain for their customers is not hidden.

Mr. Egbert nods. A simple vanilla it is, then. He can probably afford to make this with store bought extract, no sense cutting open his new batch of vanilla pods for this task. “Well then. Make yourself at home, Dave, I suppose.” 

Dave seats himself at the high top chair on the opposite edge of the kitchen island. “Just gonna take my front row seat for this show, if that’s alright.” 

_This show_. At his declaration, he instantly becomes aware of Dave’s eyes on him. He’s not used to having such an audience, even when he would bake back while John was around, no one seemed to pay this much attention to his hobby. As he looks at Dave, the contrast between his leather and red is stark against his white, sterile kitchen, now made even cleaner in the absence of young adults scrambling about it. His white marble countertops are even whiter, stainless steel even shinier, and Dave is what does not belong when for so long he did. And yet despite it all Mr. Egbert is glad for the company, for even if disturbed by his current line of action he can keep that pervasive loneliness at bay. 

The situation is so strange, so foreign, even though Dave has never been a stranger in his home. But the circumstances under which Dave is visiting are so unlike anything he’s known before. Dave’s familiar aviators, once a staple to this home environment, may now represent something insidious. 

He still isn’t able to acknowledge the bag of pills sitting there on the island edge, waiting to be sealed away with his own work.

He’ll have to touch them. He finds that he is surprisingly okay with this as time passes, like being submerged in a bath of ice. Adjustment is inevitable. 

The thought is pushed from his head as he starts to assort the various ingredients he’ll need. With a quick mental calculation, he knows exactly how much egg, flour and oil he’ll need. He’ll also have to assemble a frosting, he assumes, but that can be prepared during the baking process.

“Man, looks like you’ll really be worth the money,” Dave comments, breaking through the solitude of his work. 

Mr. Egbert smiles tightly. He tries to, wills himself not to keep looking at Dave, who is certainly looking at him. He’s not used to being seen like this, not anymore. Not used to guests, though Dave is anything but a guest. _Friend_ doesn’t sound right, _partner_ makes him wince. 

He doesn’t understand his temptation to keep his eyes on the boy. It’s not for fear that he is unpredictable, but that light under which he observes the boy has been modified. The specific lens he has used to see him has changed, the tint is different. And whether Mr. Egbert had been wearing rose tinted glasses for as long as he had known Dave or just put them on another, unpleasant matter. Because how could he have not seen for so long when all the pieces were there?

No, these are not all parts of the puzzle. In the last few months since he had seen Dave, essentially since John had left, not much had changed. Dave had grown into his adult body quite well, and yet he is not an adult, and yet he is…. Running drugs. 

There is no clarity, only static. And as Mr. Egbert mixes those ingredients together, wet and dry, his thoughts unfortunately cannot form such a cohesive mixture of understanding. In the sweetness with which he produces by his hands he cannot alleviate the bitter knowledge that something with Dave’s upbringing went terribly wrong and he did not see it, and that he is making a terrible choice.

The sounds of clattering measuring spoons and baking supplies seem even louder despite the presence of another body in the room. Between them, some palpable tension is settling in and making itself home. He’s aware of the absurdity of the entire situation but isn’t quite comfortable with making it a talking point just yet. He might never be. He still can barely believe he’s doing this.

But a desperate man cannot be so choosy, and he won’t bite at this offered hand. 

Instead, he has a thousand questions and no clue where to start. He had wondered if he and Dave would fall into the friendly camaraderie they’d once maintained, before they fell into this arrangement.

He is an empty nesting man in the suburbs who owns a home and is using it to supply drugs to the population of his city. Instead of letting himself dwell on this, he shoots for a question at Dave, anything to keep him from falling into panic. 

“I thought you were planning to attend community college,” he poses, neither a question or quite a statement. 

Dave shrugs in the periphery of his vision. “Yeah, I thought so too.”

It doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate. Mr. Egbert accepts that their conversations will now be fraught with this, whatever this feeling is, but Dave surprises him again. 

“You’re probably disappointed in me.” The statement slices through the air with all the delicacy of a shattering glass.  
Mr. Egbert pauses and looks at Dave. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m dealing drugs, Mr. E. I’m not stupid, I know what you’re thinking.” 

He chooses his words carefully when he replies. “I don’t… think any differently of you, Dave. And I’m helping you, anyways.” It would be wrong to judge Dave for such actions he was partaking in himself. 

“And if it were John?”

Mr. Egbert’s lip curls up as he says it. “The circumstances of your upbringing and John’s are unfortunately quite different.” It does not bring him any joy, admitting the fact that Dave’s guardian had completely and utterly failed in every sense. 

There is silence for a few moments, before Dave speaks again. “Why did you agree to this? You got some medical bills you can’t tell John about? You seemed pretty dead set on him not finding out.” 

Mr. Egbert stills. Oh, Dave. He always had quite a way with words and how he never framed them well. “I’d rather not discuss it, but for the record I am well.” 

“Jesus, that’s a relief. For a second I was worried you had cancer or something like that. People always turn around and do crazy shit when they’re about to die.” 

He can’t help it, the corners of his mouth quirk up. He’s known Dave long enough to know when he was concerned, and Dave was certainly concerned. It warms his heart to know Dave was thinking of him, hoping he wasn’t ill. However, it does shine a light again on his situation. 

He was admittedly doing something rightfully deemed as ‘crazy shit’, with little to no provocation save for his small income situation.. 

Just as well, Dave was not prone to using language in his house, and he’s about to open his mouth to correct him against it when he decides against it- because how ridiculous would that be? 

Everything about their relationship has changed. 

He decisively sets the bowl on the counter, ready to scoop the batter into the individual holes.

Dave slips out of the chair. “Here, let me help you.”

Mr. Egbert opens his mouth to protest and is shut down by the pure force of proximity, because Dave stands very, very close to him then. 

He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back, attempting to appear unphased. But he had not been expecting this action, nor how much he was welcoming it. 

He has simply gone too long without human touch. 

Standing so close to him, he can really appreciate Dave’s growth. He stands almost as tall as Mr. Egbert himself save for a few inches. His shoulders are broader, made strong by what he had once explained to John as ‘strifing’. 

Mr. Egbert had not been so blind as to not see the scars and bruises that would consistently mar the young boy’s body. But Dave had always shrugged it away, blaming it on these so-called workouts imposed by his guardian. 

He gives Dave a sized spoon. “Only fill this half way for now,” he directs, and then they are both busy filling their own set of pans. 

While he works, his eyes trail down to examine Dave’s hands. He notices a gold watch adorning his wrist and a large, ruby-set golden ring around one of his fingers. 

Against the rest of his outfit, it does not fit. But everything about Dave Strider is always contrasting, so in a way it does. If he looks even closer he can note small things:

The motorcycle jacket is real leather, and extremely well made. It might even be a genuine Saint Laurent. 

The watch is certainly a Rolex, with a ring of inlaid diamonds no less. 

The cuffed skinny jeans likely have a label, but it’s obscured by his jacket. 

If he really stretches his eyes, he can look up at the glasses and see that Dave had ditched John’s Ben Stiller lens and switched them out for Ray-Bans. 

However, Dave still wears the same high-top sneakers and simple cotton shirts. Some things never change. 

Dave has taste, that’s for certain, but whether the taste is for items that reek of money or by actual preference remains to be seen. However the amount of time it would have taken to procure such income… Dave must have been saving for a while, or rather…

“Dave, when did you start doing this?” 

“I was sixteen when Bro started me on runs because I could drive,” Dave answers. 

Mr. Egbert freezes. Anger, hot and boiling, courses through him and blocks out his ears with the intensity of a breaking wave that roars and roars.  
“You were _sixteen_?” he says incredulously.

Dave stops to look at him, and his face slackens when he sees the pure rage on his face. “Whoa dude, chill. It was fine. Jesus, not like it’s been that long since then anyways.”

It does not make him feel better. “You were a _child_.” 

Dave scoffs next to him, still continuing with the scooping. “Doesn’t matter now,” he mutters. Mr. Egbert takes a few breaths, still watching Dave. Finally he turns and gets back to work. 

When all the pots are half full he motions for Dave to bring over the small bag of pills. He brings it over and Mr. Egbert looks at it with disdain. 

“It’s not gonna bite ya. Nothing’s gonna happen unless you put it in your mouth.”

“I’m not necessarily pleased with having this in my home in the first place.”

“Hahaha yeah, throwback to the time you realized John was actually growing a marijuana plant in his room but he told you in was an AP environmental science project we were doing. Didn’t you like, help him water and fertilize it for a month before you figured it out?” Dave laughs as he recalls. 

He frowns as he remembers. He was so enthusiastic for John to be showing interest in an activity as rewarding as tending to plants, only to realize the ploy much later on.

He did give those boys a stern talking to following that incident, but he could not begrudge them for it.

He too had once been a rather experimental youth, in many ways. 

Dave takes a handful of the tabs and starts dropping them into the holes. 

Mr. Egbert follows suit. They are small squares with an imprint of something that looks like a stuffed animal. How disconcerting.

His fingers brush with Dave’s when he reaches into the bag to remove some more tabs.

He is intensely surprised when the action, not much different than the handshake they’d shared the other day, causes his stomach to drop. 

But that would ridiculous, it’s just Dave. 

Dave pauses for a moment before continuing on with their task. No sense in dawdling, not when they have to do the process one more time through. He makes a mental note to buy more of these pans. Mr. Egbert pushes through his discomfort and starts to place the tabs one per hole.

“This is highly unsanitary,” he comments, causing Dave to break out into relieved laughter. 

Mr. Egbert feels himself exhale in relief, as some of the strange tension between them ebbs away.

They don’t speak again as they work. Finally they get them all covered again and Mr. Egbert moves to place the pans in the oven. Dave seats himself back up on the bar chair, swaying his legs. 

“Can I get you anything?” Mr. Egbert offers. “Dinner? I’m sure I could whip you up something while those cakes are rising.” 

“Aaah yeah it’s fine Mr. E, you don’t gotta do anything else for me.” 

He attempts to press the issue once more, keeping in touch with his ingrained midwestern tendencies, before dropping it. 

“I don’t want to keep you if you have other things to do,” Dave says. 

“You are my only priority this evening,” Mr. Egbert says, which is poor phrasing. Dave raises his chin to meet his eyes once more, pausing to consider his words. 

“How about you… make me a plate of something,” Dave tries warily. 

Mr. Egbert smiles, pleased at the opportunity to do something for his guest. Despite the cause for his presence, he still feels a urge to treat him as a dignified guest. 

He’s not sure what else it could be. 

Making dinner gives him an activity with his hands for him to focus on, because Dave’s presence is far too distracting as it. No matter where he looks in the kitchen, there is black leather in the periphery. 

“What’s it like without John being around?” Dave asks, forcing him pay attention to him once more. 

“Well, I suppose it’s quieter without you two running about.”

“You still bake a lot?”

“Of course.” 

“Is it lonely, without him?” 

Mr. Egbert is silent. He considers the question, and the ache it blooms.

“You don’t gotta answer that, I just can’t imagine John is the type to call home a lot. And you don’t seem like the type to get out a lot, either. Man, I don’t think I ever remember you going out.” 

He sighs. “Yes, I suppose it is lonely. And no, I have have never done much of that ‘going out’.”

A few moments pass, the only sounds being the preparation of food.

“Is that why you said yes?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Is that why you agreed to do this? Because you were lonely? Because if I’m being honest I keep going back in my head and thinking about it and I just don’t understand how I convinced you to do this, it literally makes no sense.” 

Mr. Egbert freezes over the portion of grilled chicken he’s reheating in a pan. “As long as John doesn’t find out, I don’t see why that’s so important.”

“Yeah you see but it is, because I’ve known you for literally years and like, I just don’t fucking get it.” Dave is standing on the other end of the island now, if he takes two steps they’ll be standing close to each other again. 

“Language, David.” 

Dave laughs. “Oh no no no, you so do not get to pull that card. Man, what a freaking cop out. You can’t just--”

“ _I know_ ,” he snaps. Dave shuts his mouth, unused to hearing such a tone. “I would tell you if I knew,” he continues, letting the wound up intensity sink away. “Now go sit down, your food is almost ready.” 

Dave, surprisingly, obeys. Mr. Egbert does not understand why this pleases him, but it does. 

It’s certainly getting hot with the oven and stove running for so long. He allows himself to loosen a top button on his shirt and adjusts one of his rolled up sleeves. 

When he places the plate in front of Dave it is not intended to be forceful at all, but Dave’s smile at him is both rueful and smirking and Mr. Egbert is not sure what to make of it. 

He only sits with Dave after removing the pans from the oven to cool. 

“I apologize for using that tone with you. This is a delicate situation, Dave. I kindly ask that you not make it anymore so than it already is.” 

“Yeah sorry. I guess… I mean you can’t really blame me. I was gonna be curious no matter what. Anyways we wouldn’t be partners without our first real spat right?”

“I’m not sure that’s how the saying goes,” Mr. Egbert murmurs, but Dave is still talking. 

“But yeah, I’ll stop asking dude.”

“I appreciate it. By partaking in this I’ve certainly lost any right to be a role model to you, either.” 

“Yeah, as if you were ever one in the first place.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kidding, kidding, yeesh,” Dave says, but his smiles reads something else. 

It takes another hour, but they finish all the cupcakes with little more questioning. Mr. Egbert is thankful. He helps Dave to the car and places the stack of inconspicuous foiled cupcakes in the back seat. 

There they stand again, a foot apart, a moment away, yet so distant. 

It’s dark out now, but the light of the house is enough to throw Dave’s features into definition. 

He notices things, things he hadn’t noticed even under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the house.

A gold chain under the neckline of Dave’s shirt, matching the gold watch and the ring.

A nose that he had long ago grown into, childlike cheeks that had flattened out. Hair, possibly unruly at first pass, but in actuality as immaculately styled as his own. Kept sideburns that framed his face nicely. Thin lips, pressed into an unreadable expression. Youth, spoiled by the pressure of his profession. He is not so blind as to not notice attractiveness in another person. 

He knows why he said yes. 

Mr. Egbert searches his face for longer than he should, but Dave holds his gaze. He is not afforded the safety of lenses, does not see where Dave’s eyes are wandering as well. 

“Dave, you should come earlier tomorrow for dinner, before you come with, well, you know. It’ll be just like old times.” He should not do this, extend this offer that will catch both Dave and himself in sticky flypaper. But he is weak and he is lonely and he is guilty. “I’ll make enough for two, it’s no trouble.”

Dave is a handsome young man who deserves a real meal now and then, he tells himself. 

Dave nods. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. I know you always make too much food anyways.” He turns to leave and enter his car, but Mr. Egbert catches him, throwing a hand out to his upper arm and curving around it. He stops in his tracks and looks at him, bewilderment on his face before it is quickly swallowed by his eternal placidity. 

“Dave, whatever this is that you’re doing, you don’t need to do it. There are other things you can do, I’ll help you get out.”

Dave is quiet, for a moment. And then he smiles sadly. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you planned it to, Mr. E.”

Mr. Egbert releases his arm. “I understand, Dave. I understand... more than you could possibly ever know.” He cannot take it back now, now that he has admitted this. 

Something falters between Dave’s shades, a quick dip of his eyebrows as he says it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says and slips into his car. And just like that, Dave is gone. 

Agreeing to Dave was inevitable because the fact alone remains: there is nothing Dave Strider could ever ask of him that Mr. Egbert could deny. 

He doesn’t know why that is.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a small update

Dave hurries to the drop point, hoping for it to be easy. 

The entire time, he’s distracted by thoughts of what just occurred. 

Things had been simple enough, in the before. He had spent many evenings sharing dinner with Mr. Egbert and John, not unalike what had just happened.

So he was lost as to why everything seemed to have flipped over. Hell, he’d even made the guy snap. And it sure took a lot for Mr. Egbert to break out of his unassuming manner. 

And even weirder… he couldn’t help but feel that Egbert’s eyes were always on him. Watching him, analysis him, breaking him down into pieces in a way that he hated people doing. But with Egbert it was okay, somehow. 

It went hand in hand with that thick, indescribable tension that hung between them like a heavy curtain. 

He’d invited him over for dinner tomorrow, and the more Dave turned that over in his head the madder he got. 

Because it all felt like pity. And he didn’t want Mr. Egbert’s pity. He needed his cooperation, sure, and that was a given already. 

He thought about Egbert’s roving eyes, how thoroughly the man searched his face before extending the offer. What did he see there? 

It was always tough enough enduring the piercing baby blue of John’s eyes, Mr. Egbert’s were another matter altogether. They were slightly lighter but still an impossible shade of blue, streaked with grey. He saw where John got his bone structure, but with Mr. Egbert his features were more cut, so to speak. 

Despite the protection of his shades, it was still hard to look at him. 

It was even harder to know Egbert was looking at him, the intensity of his gaze striking up a feeling in Dave he was hesitant to acknowledge. 

He still didn’t know why he said yes. Egbert had said he wasn’t disappointed in Dave, which he found hard to believe. 

But he was still helping him. 

If this drop goes well they’d have a partnership for sure, but the nature of it was yet to be determined. 

—

When Dave is expected to darken his doorstep the next day, instead of wringing his hands and smoking until his kitchen is as clouded as his brain, Mr. Egbert makes dinner for two. There’s a touch of nostalgia in the action, almost as if he’s making dinner for John like he did for all those years. It’s a dangerous path, taking this compelling need to do something for Dave, and letting it manifest so clearly. 

Dave appears dressed with the same smooth leather, a bulge in one pocket. He slips in through the door. 

Mr. Egbert wonders for a moment if his neighbors have noticed, and this writes it off as ridiculous. They’ve always seen Dave come to the house. 

A different Dave, though. One that didn’t adorn himself so much, even if subtly. 

Dave, like most young men, can immediately sense prepared food in his vicinity. But he stops still in his entryway when the door closes behind, locking himself to that spot. 

“Is something the matter, Dave?” Mr. Egbert looks back at him, ready to escort him into the kitchen.

Dave shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and back before speaking. “Nah, uh, here.” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a wrapped bag. “Here’s all your cut, dude. Went off without a hitch, I’m a genius.” 

Mr. Egbert had been trying to avoid the inevitable discussion of payment, and then Dave just thrusts through it like nothing. He takes it from Dave’s hand, making a point to not touch his fingers this time. He shoves the wad into his back pocket and motions toward the kitchen. 

“Thank you kindly, Dave. Now that’s all well and good but you should stay for dinner.” He intends to make good on his previous offer. 

Dave’s already unhappy mouth sets down further for a moment. “I think I’m good.”

“I insist, I made enough for two.” 

Dave frowns even more deeply. “I’m gonna go, Mr. E. I’ll see you next Wednesday. I’d say you know the drill except you don’t because you’ve only done this once. Aaaand okay then I’m outta here.”

He’s out the door in a flash. 

Mr. Egbert only stares after him, confused and inexplicably disappointed. 

He forces himself to put it out of his mind, busying himself with counting the winnings and calculating how long it will take to help John. 

Maybe when he’s done with that he can help Dave, too.


End file.
